“When did you want to start back?” Jane asked.
“Never,” Maggie said.
“No, seriously,” Jane said. She looked for a fresh t-shirt and underwear. Maggie didn’t take her eyes off the screen.
“I am serious. I don’t want to go back to New York. I look forward to the day when I will never have to.”
“Well, we have to go back tonight.”
“Do we? We could stay another night. Leave early in the morning or maybe just make a long weekend of it. Go back Tuesday morning.”
“I don’t think I can do that, Maggie.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have anyone coming into the office until Wednesday.”
“I forgot one. Ellen is coming on Tuesday. I made it by e-mail on Friday, before our blackout.”
“Turning off the phones wasn’t meant to be laborious. Why don’t you check your messages now?”
“I turned mine back on this morning after I got out of bed. I haven’t heard it.”
Maggie grimaced. “I thought that was a mistake. I turned it off again.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Jane said. Pulling the robe around herself, she walked quickly to the table where the cell phone had been placed. She turned it on.
“I’m sorry, Jane. Really—”
“It’s okay. Six messages!”
“They should leave you alone on a Sunday.”
“I’m a lawyer, Maggie,” Jane said. “I don’t get a rest day.”
“You sound angry.” Maggie stood up at her desk and crossed the room, stopping halfway; her hands held at her waist, the fingers intertwined. Jane was focused on the phone’s screen.
“I’m not angry. I’m sorry if I sounded angry. It’s just the way it is. Clients sometimes want ... Jesus! Maureen called me twice. I better call her.”
“Can’t it wait just a little while longer?” Maggie asked, coming closer. “It was so pleasant to be cut off from all of that. You can call her on the way back.”
“But we’re not really cut off, Maggie. We had the papers.”
“I thought that was a mistake too.”
“Well, what about the computer? You were on line just now. How is that cut off?”
“I only wanted to show you a couple of web sites I had found. One is about what you need to raise goats, make cheese, sell your stuff. You can even intern at a farm not too far away and learn it all in a few months. And there’s another site about raising chickens.”
“The wonders of the web.”
Jane dialed Maureen’s number.
“Don’t be mean,” Maggie said softly. She was standing just a foot away from Jane. The tie of Jane’s robe was loose, exposing a narrow strip of Jane’s body.
“Shhh,” Jane said. “It’s ringing. I’m not trying to be mean.”
Maggie’s hand slipped inside the robe. She came still closer and brought her lips close to Jane’s cheek.
Jane turned away.
“Maureen? It’s Jane. Say, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. I’ve been away. What’s going on? Really? A subpoena?” Jane put her hand over the phone and whispered to Maggie. “She’s been subpoenaed for the Grand Jury on Monday.”
Maggie walked to the window, looking out.
“Maureen, I’ll be back tonight,” Jane continued. “And I’ll come by your apartment. I’m not sure what time.” She covered the phone again. “Maggie is there a train or a bus? I don’t want to make you go back.”
Maggie kept staring out the window at the square of grass and the branch of a maple tree covered with a few late golden leaves that blocked part of the view. “There is no public transportation around here. That’s why I could buy this place so cheaply. It’s okay. I’ll drive you back.”
“Can we be back by seven? Is that too early?”
Maggie’s shoulders slumped slightly. She paused, took a deep breath and let it out.
“No, that’s fine. Whatever you need, Janey.”
“Maureen? I’ll be over to see you around seven-thirty. And don’t worry, Maureen. I’ll get you through this. What? I know, I know. And we’ll talk about that, okay? Okay. See you then.”
Jane turned the cell phone off and crossed the room to the window where Maggie stood looking out. When Jane reached her, she saw tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Hey, what are you crying for?’ Jane asked, curling her arms over Maggie’s shoulder, kissing the side of her face where the tears had left their tracks. “We’ll still have a lot of time today. And many more weekends. I promise, Maggie. Long weekends. We’ll just plan it all little better. Whole weeks, if you want me. Come on, stop now. Why are you crying like this?”
Maggie turned quickly and threw her arms around Jane, embracing her fiercely, rubbing her face against Jane’s, wet with new hot tears.
“I don’t know why, Janey. I just don’t know.”
Chapter Thirty
Sunday evening, Maggie sat alone in her New York apartment. Earlier, when they were nearing the city, Jane had called ahead and Maureen surprised her by insisting that she come to Jane’s office to meet her. It made their arrival somewhat awkward, with Maureen standing on the step to Jane’s office. Instead of taking her bag and going upstairs, Maggie told Jane that she had writing that she really wanted to get done and it was best accomplished in her own apartment. It actually sounded true. Jane had suggested she come over afterward and stay at Maggie’s, but they agreed it would be difficult. Jane had to meet Maureen early in the morning at her office on 92nd Street and Maggie’s bed was narrow and meant for only one. There are any number of excuses available to put off telling the world such news as theirs.
At this point, the glow of the laptop’s screen was the only light in the room. If she wanted to, she could type out what remained of the story with her eyes shut. She could recite it without hesitation like the blind poet.
After she had dropped Jane off and parked her car, she had come inside and chosen to remain in blessed darkness, removing her clothes from the day, searching by feel and memory in the black depths of her bedroom closet for the three quarter length shift with the string of buttons down the front that she kept there—God knows why. She didn’t need a reminder. Perhaps it was a symbol of what cannot ever be disposed of in a lifetime. Perhaps that was it. There was still so much to explain. She put it on.
She and Jane had spent a truly wonderful day in the country once her inexplicable crying had stopped. Jane had had some legal research to do because of the problem with Maureen and had sat at the desk upstairs where the laptop could connect to the Internet. Maggie had stayed with her for a while, occupying herself with the Sunday paper and reading some literature she had gathered on the relative merits of various breeds of goats: long hair, short hair, milk production, resistance to disease, temperature. Time and again she had looked over at Jane surreptitiously, her face a study in rapt concentration as she read through the law cases, her eyes fixed on the computer screen, a stray hair falling across her forehead, her lips pursed just so, her brow furrowed slightly, her dark eyebrows arched marvelously, intelligent and beautiful—so achingly beautiful that Maggie had had to get up finally and leave to work outside.
The stone walls along her property were filled with cracks and crevices where windblown seeds of trees, grass, flowers and weeds stubbornly clung to the space they had fallen upon despite a lack of earth or water or proper nutrients, sending out roots and leaves, oblivious to the fact there was no future in it but a stunted life. She yanked them out, one by one, careful to get as much of the root as possible but not to loosen the rocks, tossing the remnants into piles a few yards apart as she made her way along the wall. The only things she left were the raspberry and blackberry shoots, although she cut these back to one and two foot stubs as she’d read was appropriate to aid the next year’s growth. It seemed heartless to rip out living things, seedlings of locust and maple trees, nightshade, daisies and columbine. But otherwise, the wall would be overrun and crumble from the roots digg
ing deeper and deeper into the cracks, thickening every year, allowing more water to enter, more dirt, more windblown seeds until destruction resulted. Better to be ruthless and to tend only to those things that are planted deliberately, to avoid chance. This was what the gardener does, after all.
She had been at her job for an hour and a half or more when Jane appeared with a pitcher of sangria made from the leftover wine from the night before, some sliced oranges and apples and limes, capped off by a dash of brandy that she had found in the hall closet. What a nice surprise! In a closet upstairs, she had found a long white and blue striped cotton dress of Maggie’s and put it on, and she was smiling as she approached barefoot across the grass, a blanket under one arm, holding up the pitcher like a trophy.
Then, she had taken Maggie by the hand, ignoring her protest that she wanted just to finish to the next corner and led her to the spot in the shade where she had spread the blanket. She had wiped the sweat and dust from Maggie’s face and forehead and neck with a cool damp cloth, so tenderly, so attentively, so lovingly.
“Guess what,” she had whispered in Maggie’s ear. “I’m not wearing anything under this dress.”
And so it had gone for the rest of the day. Beautiful Jane, graceful Jane, tender Jane, loving Jane, working beside her to finish the wall, to rake up the leaves, to cart them to the compost pile behind the barn, interrupted now and then by stolen kisses, caresses, moments of sheer joy when a new round of inexplicable tears threatened. And still Maggie could not escape the feeling that it would end, it would have to end, it would be destroyed. In our beginning is our end.
She started to type, with a growing fury:
Chapter Five
~ Diana ~
By
Maggie Edwards
I am naked for those first several endless hours, but in the end my nakedness does not provide sufficient sport. They look through my small bag of things and find a three-quarter-length cotton shift that I had intended to wear to dinner that night at my friend’s house. The background is yellow and there are large overlapping flowers of pink, and red and orange. There are yellow buttons along its front from the collar to the knee.
Jake tossed it to me and told me to put it on. By instinct, I turned away to pull it around me, and he screamed at me to face him. Donnie laughed nervously.
“Start over,” Jake said quietly. “Take it off and put it on again slowly, for me and Donnie.”
“You are a fucking pistol, Jake!” Donnie said then, as I did what I was told, unfastening the buttons one after the other and fastening them again.
“Now,” Jake said. “Come stand right in front of Donnie and me, real close, because what you really want is for me and him to stick our hands underneath that dress and pleasure you, right?
“Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”
“That’s right what?”
“That’s what I want.”
Jake put his hand on the inside of my leg and slowly ran up my thigh.
“Well, come on then, honey. All you have to do is ask.”
This, then, is the fantasy that has evolved. I will submit in all things and find a species of contentment within the confines of my conquered state. This is a fundamental aspect of their belief, that while the woman protests, she secretly wants; while she cries out, it is anticipation of the most heightened ecstasy. In domination is release, purpose, a new freedom.
I understand all of this at the moment Jake starts that progress up my leg and Donnie does the same, both of them staring at my face to watch my reaction. I understand what is necessary to survive and how I must appear to them. And I also know that the fantasy can be used to accomplish my own ends. And so, when Jake is not looking I fix my eyes on Donnie, and smile shyly, and appear to favor him oh so slightly.
And later that night, as I lie with my arms and legs secured to the posts of a bed and Donnie awakens, I call to him. He is uncertain at first, but I tell him I can’t sleep, and ask if he will just rub the muscles of my shoulders where they ache, and my legs also. That feels so good, thank you, Donnie. I look at him in the darkness in a way that invites him to come into the bed with me, and suddenly his fantasy has reached a new level, separated from Jake. I whisper to Donnie that he should be slow with me, please Donnie, and very quiet, neglecting to say what is obvious even to his small brain, that this is a private moment and Jake does not have to ever know, please Donnie. Didn’t he know even as he was driving earlier and I was sitting in the front seat beside him, that I had wanted him and him alone? I had seen him watching my legs out of the corner of his eyes as I pulled my skirt higher. Surely he had known I was planning to ask him to my friend’s house later for a night together? Just the two of them, not Jake.
He is flattered by my words of praise, and even releases my arms as I suggest so I can embrace him, undivided in my loyalty now, giving satisfaction to him only—him. He is slow at my urging. He is quiet and almost tender, and Jake is not disturbed. Donnie and I can hear him snoring, and Donnie laughs when I say that I once had an old dog that snored just like Jake does. And after he falls asleep again in my bed, my arms are still free. I wonder if I should try to loosen the ropes at my feet and make my escape, but they stir at my movement and I decide that I will wait. I see how the fantasy can suit my plans yet more completely.
When Jake awakens that morning, he discovers that Donnie is asleep in the bed with me and that my wrists and arms are untied. He screams at Donnie who tells Jake for the first time to shut up and shows some spine of his own. Inwardly, I smile because I know that he is conscious of my eyes on him now and wants to please me.
They agree finally that they must be more careful—that I will not leave except on their terms, decided together. And yet I am hopeful now. As Jake climbs on top of me and penetrates me hard and quick, I am aware that Donnie has turned away. He does not comment or laugh and over breakfast he is sullen. Whenever I can, when Jake is not looking, I give him a glance and a slight smile, a smile that shares a secret that separates the two of us from Jake, who snores like an old dog. And my hopes are fulfilled later when Jake says that he will take the van into town for food and beer, and Donnie and I are alone. One master, one willing slave.
He sits on a chair near the door, throwing a hunting knife against the floor, its blade sticking with a heavy sound in the wood, again and again. I am in a chair by the table, wearing the shift. Then, as though he has made a decision, he drops the knife to the floor. He doesn't need that anymore. In response, as he had no doubt wished, I stand up without a word from him and I cross the room and kneel with my head is in his lap. I am moaning with desire for him, guiding him out of the chair, praising him and telling him how hungry I am for him. Let me show you. Let me do it to you.
He is utterly blinded by his own spinning, wheeling fantasy. He is on his back, watching me as I straddle him, his slave, loyal just to him as I unbutton the shift and take his hands and put them on my breasts. I tell him again that this is the way it could have been except for Jake and how good he feels inside me as I raise and lower my body. Good, you feel so good. And then his eyes begin to close, so good, Donnie, permitting me to lean forward, as though I am merely trying to make it more comfortable for him to thrust deeper, so good. He does believe me, he believes every blessed word, until I have grabbed the knife and plunged it into his chest.
His scream is fixed always in my mind. It is a high-pitched scream of pain and betrayal and fear and anger, merging with my own voice, a voice I barely recognize, shrill and full of panic because the knife protrudes, dug partially in the bone of his breast with blood flowing down his chest, and he is not dead. I never imagined there would be that much blood and yet he would not be dead!
He struggles to his feet, saying he will kill me in that weird high voice, cursing me, pulling at the knife, unable to remove it, weakened from the wound and the sight of the thick red blood, pulsing anew with his movement. He stumbles after me, and I sidestep him and, with all of my strength, I swing
a chair crashing into his head from behind, and he is on his hands and knees, pausing from the effort, dazed, staring down at himself, trying to absorb the reality of the sharp steel buried in his chest. He staggers upward. Why won't you die? I swing the chair harder and this time he falls heavily forward and the knife finally breaks completely through the bone and stills his heart. Die!
I dress quickly in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers. My mind races, but I am utterly calm now. I know exactly what I have to do. I work the knife free from his chest and drag his body from the center of the room to a place where it can’t be seen immediately. I clean up as much of the blood as I can and, with a piece of carpet, I cover the stained floor and wait. I am not afraid. I feel only a rage that has not been satisfied.
And when Jake returns and walks past me into the room with the bags of groceries in his arms, it is easy for Diana to leap from behind the door and surprise him. It is easy to plunge the blade deep into his back, again and again on either side of his spine, into the lungs and the heart, the knife flashing, an extension of her arm. Diana feels nothing except her rage. She is the huntress, unaffected by the writhing of his limbs, his puzzled expression, his tears.
It is only after Diana has lit the ritual fire that would consume the cabin and their bodies that she must think about her own life. What she should do now. What she can do now. And a sense of utter despair encompasses her because she begins to understand that what has gone on cannot be forgotten. The rage has not satisfied her. The memory is a cancer that cannot be removed, that will spread into every beautiful thing she will try to accomplish. It is all she has left and will destroy her in the end. She will always be its slave.
Chapter Thirty-One
Praise Her, Praise Diana Page 23